


We Are The Kids From Yesterday

by sdeubanks



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7543522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdeubanks/pseuds/sdeubanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a chance meeting with a popular band pulls Jen into their group, she isn't sure if she is ready for the limelight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are The Kids From Yesterday

I know who they are as soon as they walk into the coffee shop.

It’s a bit surreal, like I’m dreaming. How often do you see the entirety of a famous band? How often is that band one that influenced you in your late teens? I’ve kept up with their success in passing in the past few years. I can still recall useless trivia about them from nights spent listening to old CDs on my best friend’s stereo. My music tastes have evolved and changed since I was 15, but Sister to Sleep still holds a place in my heart.

I watch Geoff, Michael, Dom, Frank, Rob, and a woman as they walk up to the counter to make their orders. I realize with a start that I am taller than all of them and I feel my face flush a little. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but being a 5’11 tall female isn’t as great as it sounds. Only Dom and Michael are close to my height but I figure I still have an inch or so on them in flats. And I always wear flats.

I take their orders as diligently as I can, making sure to get them completely right. Frank and the woman order last, and as she slides an arm through his I realize she must be his wife. If I recall correctly all of the band members except for Dom and Rob are married. The woman scrunches her face as the looks at the menu board above my head and I use it as a chance to look her over. She is small, maybe 5’4 and stocky but still with an hourglass figure. I inwardly sigh at the unfairness of it all. Her face is round with blue eyes, a small, full mouth and a pert nose. Her hair is light brown, short, and wavy. Assuming she is close to her husband’s age, she is around 30, which makes her five years older than me. Her clothes are neat and fashionable with designer jeans and a pretty blouse under a dark navy jacket. She looks nothing like her husband. He wears a Black Flag t-shirt under a flannel button down with the sleeves rolled up. His jeans are well worn and his Chucks are scuffed and ripped. Tattoos from the neck down and multiple piercings. I’m struck for a moment at their opposite appearances and find myself wanting to draw them, to put the juxtaposition of them on paper. As I dutifully take their orders I imagine I would draw them in watercolor with ink. Let their opposing colors and outlines run together to show their bond.

I follow that train of thought while I make all of their drinks, my mind creating the colors I would use and the details I would fill in with a pen. As I hand over the drinks I realize the woman is watching me, a little crease between her eyebrows. I give her an apologetic smile, sure she caught me staring before. They guys go over to the side counter and add milk, cream, and sugar to their various drinks. The woman walks up to the counter. I smile at her again.

“Can I help you?”

“You’re a fan right?”

I freeze. Had I stared at them? Gaped? No, I’d been careful to only look at them as much as possible. I glance over at the men then back to the woman before me, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

She smiles and turns her cup around so I can see where I wrote her name, “You only asked for mine,” she says softly and I can feel my neck and face turn red. I hadn’t even realized I’d been writing their names as I asked their orders. She grins now, “Don’t worry, they didn’t notice, and I appreciate you not making a big deal out of it. Sometimes being in public with them is a hassle.”

I smile back at her still mortified. She walks over to the guys and I turn away, intent on cleaning the machines behind me to hide my tomato red face. Freaking idiot. I hear them murmuring to each other and even though I am beyond thrilled that I saw them in person, I really want them to go so I can die of mortification in peace. Thankfully they start to leave, the bell over the door jingling merrily. I let out a sigh and turn only to jump in surprise to find the woman standing at the counter again, napkin and drink in hand.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she says politely and places her napkin on the counter along with a business card. She turns and leaves, Frank waiting for her by the door. I pick up the napkin and my stomach does a summersault.

“Thanks for the coffee! – Sister to Sleep” and all of their signatures below it. I stare at the black ink for a very long time before I remember the business card. It is a beautiful weight, the paper crisp and ivory.

‘Ezra Isle- Artist and Repertoire Representative, Eyeball Records’

Jesus. I’m pretty sure there are local bands who would kill to have this card. I put it and the napkin carefully in the pocket of a binder in my book bag in the back room. I come back out and start cleaning the shop since it is close to closing time. When I’m done and the till is balanced and the lights off and door locked, I head home, backpack securely on my shoulders. In the ten blocks to the apartment I allow myself to daydream as I so often do.

I imagine illustrating a children’s book about a little band from New Jersey who told the world it is okay to be different. The book has no words, I’m not that good of a writer, but it doesn’t matter, the pictures are all you need to understand. A mix of lines, color, and shapes that tell a story without words. I smile to myself as I unlock the front door of the building and start the long trek up the stairs to the fifth floor. The elevator is on the fritz again. Hopefully it is fixed before I go to the grocery store this weekend.

I unlock the door to the apartment and call that I’m home. When there is no response I sigh. Eric must be on call at the hospital again. He started his residency a few weeks ago and as a result, we’ve seen very little of each other. Most of his shifts are 12-24 hours not counting is on call times and I spend my mornings at graduate school and most evenings at the coffee shop. Not for the first time I second guess the decision to get my Master’s Degree, but I shrug it off as I dump my backpack by the couch. At this point I’ve only got two semesters left. Things between Eric and I are strained at the moment, but I tell myself we’ll make time for each other when we can. After two years together, it should be a piece of cake to work it out. Content with that train of thought I pull out the autographed napkin and the business card and put them on the fridge until I can find a photo frame to put them in. I know, lame. But I’m not sure what else to do with them. I get into pajamas and pull a beer from the fridge and a bag of reduced sodium chips from the cabinet before I plop down on the couch to watch TV. With a satisfied little sigh I settle in for a marathon of Law and Order. Tonight was a pretty good night.


End file.
